


She Used to Be Mine

by seaofolives



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon - Video Game, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon Universe, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Flashbacks, M/M, Minor Character Death, Named Dadsona (Dream Daddy), Pre-Canon, Pre-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 06:58:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12576252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaofolives/pseuds/seaofolives
Summary: These are the last days before Mat lost his wife, Rosa Sella.





	She Used to Be Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Creative liberty taken on the dadsona (who was also based on one of my OCs)(I didn't want this fic to end in a bad note!) and the Meet Mat scene. _She Used to Be Mine_ is a song by Sarah Bareilles written for the musical _Waitress_. This is also a Good Joseph Ending verse (although it isn't taken up here).

“Bro, seriously, you don’t have to do this.”

“Craig’s right, Mat,” Hugo added, shaking his head. “No one’s expecting you to go out there for a tribute. What you’ve done is enough. We’re all grieving here.”

Mat knew that his friends’ words were meant for comfort—but in his sorrow, they only made him even more anxious. How could he simply give up now, after he took all the time that they had for granted? This was his last chance to do something for her, for once—and even then, it was already too late. Far too late. But he would never be able to face himself if he didn’t do it. 

“But it doesn’t feel right,” He spoke up after a long second of silence. “This…this whole thing, this was her. This was her dream,” he added, waving his arms out to the pile of unwashed dishes, the trays of canapés covered in foil, the sink, the tiles, the kitchen. “She’s supposed to be here. If I don’t do it, then it’s like she’s…not…here.” He winced. “And she should be here, even in spirit, because this is her shop and it’s her dream and she’s a part of it as much as I am and…I wouldn’t be here and it wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her?”

“Will you permit me one minor observation, though, dear friend,” Damien interrupted smoothly, indicating him with a black-tipped finger. “You look about as pale as I do.” 

Surprised by his comment, Mat looked down to his hands to see if it was true. Suddenly, he felt more conscious about their existence than he already was. 

“Yeah, bro!” Taken by excitement, Craig clapped Damien in the arm and looked immediately sorry for the unintended impact, never mind that Damien looked oddly satisfied by his reaction while managing to be startled and embarrassed at the same time. But to Mat, Craig continued, “You’re shaking like a salt shaker on five bottles of Red Bull.”

“And, you’re rambling,” Hugo finished, pushing back his glasses as if to add scholarly weight on his assessment. 

Mat drew out a heavy sigh, clasping his hands. Craig was right, he _was_ shaking! At least no one noticed how cold he was. Yet. “Guys, listen. Just let me do this. Rosa deserves as much. I want to do this,” he said, looking at each of them in turn—Craig in a sleek black dry-ex shirt, Hugo in a double-breasted black suit, Damien in what he figured was an appropriate mourning costume back in the day, looking both fashionable and somber at the same time, as any self-respecting goth would and should. “Really. I do.”

All three of them exchanged looks. Damien shrugged, Craig scratched his head. Hugo sighed and rose, reaching for Mat’s shoulder. “We just want what’s best for you,” he said, patting him. “You’ve already been through so much.”

“Yeah, dude, we’re just thinking about you.”

For what it was worth, Mat managed a tiny bit of a smile for his friends. “Thanks, guys. It’ll be fine.” He’ll be fine. 

Right?

⚘

“Mat, bro!”

At the sound of heavy footfalls squeaking against the polished floor, Mat stopped all at once, with one last ragged gasp fighting its way free before he could swallow down everything else that followed. Craig would catch him with his face in his hands, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, trying to control himself before the man arrived. 

“Man, I don’t know what’s up tonight but the parking lot’s packed! Almost went back out to the street but it’s a good thing I caught someone leaving.” He fell to sit beside Mat on the hard plastic bench, laying a hand on his shoulder. “So? Doc come out yet?”

Mat began his answer with a sniffle, bringing his eyes out of hiding so he could press his fist to his lips. “Two months,” he said, croaking. He addressed the empty wall across of him. 

Craig didn’t understand his meaning. “Two months…?” he prompted. 

Mat sniffled and sighed again, pinching his eyes. “That’s all she has left.”

Stunned silence fell on the man beside him. He straightened up, putting on his glasses again. “Se—?” Craig began but stopped himself. It was a stupid question but Mat could sympathize. Craig was quiet again, thinking. 

“But hey,” he went on after. “Bro, remember when they said she only had a year left? And then she went on to have two more birthdays?”

“Yeah,” Mat laughed suddenly, tentatively. “And she insisted on driving by the hospital on both of them so she could give it the finger and the fuck-you.”

“Yeah, exactly!” Craig said with optimistic excitement. “You know, every time we come back here and they tell us this is it, you know every single time, Rosa just shows them up. Every time, dude. Every time.”

Mat smiled wistfully at Craig’s words, but weakly. He wished he could have the exact same spirit his friend had right now, but he wasn’t a fool. He wasn’t as blind as he wished he were, and he could see how slowly as the time went that Rosa herself was getting…tired…of fighting. And so was he, of losing again and again. 

Guilt rushed through him like hot lava. How could he think that way? Mat squared his shoulders suddenly. “It’s not that I’m giving up,” he began, apropos of nothing. “I’m _not_ giving up. Rosa and Carmensita are not giving up and I’m not giving up.” An uncomfortable pause. “But sometimes things are just getting too…real, man. I think I believe the doctor when she says two months ‘cause I see it in Rosa but then I can’t give up so I don’t give up but it’s coming to a point where it hurts to think about the future _and_ the past because I don’t know if she’ll still be there but I can’t imagine her not being a part of them. Of us—me and Carmensita’s lives.” He breathed. “But I know that I shouldn’t hang on to false hope, I know that it’s happening but I can’t think like that too ‘cause that makes me a bad husband and a bad dad but is it being a bad dad if I think about how Carmensita and I are going to manage without her? What I have to do to make it easier for Carmensita?”

“Bro,” Craig said after a moment, scratching his head. “You know I’m here to support you, man, I’m here to be a friend.” He hissed. “But you’re asking me questions I don’t have the answer to.”

“Hey, yeah. Yeah, that’s totally cool, I’m sorry for letting it all out on you like that, that wasn’t cool, man.” Mat rubbed the back of his nape, falling silent. Pensive. 

“Hey, don’t let me keep you, you gotta go if you have to,” he said after a moment, patting Craig on his arm. “Thanks for driving me over, dude. I owe you a big one.”

“What? Bro! Come on, who talks like that, huh?” He wasn’t shy about his strength when he nudged at Mat. “I’m staying, man. You’ll need a lift back.”

“The twins are gonna look for you.”

“Ashley’s got ‘em, don’t worry!” As a demonstration of his intent, he leaned back with his arms over his head, legs stretched out. “Besides, what’s the CSDPA gonna say about a Dad who leaves a Dad in need on his own?”

“What’s the CSD…?”

“Cul de sac Parent Association.” Craig grinned. “Totally just made that up.” Mat snorted and chuckled. 

He stopped when he heard the door open, sitting up straight as he turned to face the woman in a white coat stepping out of the room, a polite smile on her face. 

“Mr. Sella?” she began pleasantly. “You can go in now.”

Craig stayed back. The room, with its white light, shuttered windows, cold machines and the smell of disinfectants, was a dreary little space that seemed to sap his strength just by its appearance alone. Mat closed the door behind him as he made his way quietly to the woman on her bed in the middle, half-dwarfed by all the linen and her own weakness.

When she opened her eyes and smiled at him, though, nothing would have stopped him from smiling back. Her brown skin was ashen gray, her long, thick, wavy hair lank but there was still that undying flame in her deep brown eyes that beckoned to him like a bonfire in a cold, dark forest. “Hey, lover,” she said, her voice quiet. 

Mat took his place beside her and found her hand instantly. Their fingers entwined like familiar dancers. “Hey,” he greeted back. 

“Aw, my baby’s been crying.”

“You don’t look so hot yourself,” Mat chuckled. He saw, in the shifting of her other arm, that Rosa would have wanted to brush his hair as she normally would, but she couldn’t find the strength to do it. Mat felt strangely cold at the absence of her gentle touch. He tried not to squeeze her hand too hard to compensate for it. 

“Ay, Cariño,” Rosa sighed, shaking her head. She eyed him, as if looking at him closely from her pillow. “Hmm, maybe I spoiled my baby too much, hm?” she asked, smirking. 

“You’re just that good at it,” Mat said and they laughed. It was true—as soon as they’d settled down in Maple Bay, Rosa had dedicated her entire energy to him and Carmensita. She looked after them, practically gave them everything they could ask for. She loved doing it and Mat loved her doing it; he wouldn’t have lasted so long in the touring life, under the limelight if it hadn’t been for her. 

“Mat,” she began again after a moment, looking into his eyes. “Mat, I need you to do something for me.”

“Rosa, stop,” Mat hissed. “I don’t want to hear you talking like that, this won’t be the last.”

“Mateo, listen to me,” she persisted. She always thought his name was too short, a fact of life which she tried to make up for by giving their daughter four syllables. “You have to listen to me because we don’t have much time!” Mat, stunned, stopped. She exhaled quietly, going on without missing another beat. She was always, had always been so sure of herself. And even at this point of her life, she was still unwavering in her confidence. “When it’s time,” she said, “promise me you’ll be strong for Carmensita.”

“I,” Mat started but stopped just as soon. No one would wish to admit that they weren’t strong enough for their family, but Rosa had always seen through him. Did that make him a bad father? Who wouldn’t be able to raise this family when his foundation had gone? Did Rosa think so? Is that what she really meant? 

“Honey, you know I will, even without you saying it,” he chuckled, hoping that might reassure her but then he thought it came out defensively and panicked a little. “Because it’s obvious. I mean. She’s our kid, I’m her father, she’ll want to have a Dad that fits the job and I want the same for her ‘cause she’s my daughter…what?” At long last, he broke off to smile and laugh, because Rosa had done the same and rolled her eyes. 

“Ay, Cariño,” she sighed again, and looked at him lovingly, in a way that made him think, _I’m going to miss you._ Could they have both thought that? “One more thing,” she said instead, and he felt her shaking strength tightening around his fingers. “Promise me,” she paused for breath, “that you’ll never change.”

And just like that, she’d brought silence to his spinning doubts. Smiling, he promised her, “Honey, I wouldn’t. Not even for the world.”

He didn’t stay for much longer. He couldn’t—these days, Rosa tired very easily, and Carmensita was waiting for him. She still had school tomorrow. 

Craig gave him a lift back to the cul de sac, dropping him at Brian Harding’s front yard where they said goodnight and parted ways. Mat ran his hands briefly over his hair and down his shirt before he raised a fist. 

The door opened before he could knock. Brian stood behind, dressed in a pajama set with a pattern of fish on a blue background. The scent of fragrant wood chips wafted from within. “Thought it was you,” he said knowingly, a friendly smile on his face. 

“Hey, dude,” Mat replied smiling back wearily. “Just came to pick up my daughter.”

“She’s sleeping in the guest room.” Although the pleasant look remained on his face, Brian pulled his brows together. “You look like someone mistook you for a lawn and mowed you over. Why don’t you come in for a bit?”

“No, it’s cool, man, don’t let us trouble you for much longer…”

“Keith doesn’t mind,” Brian insisted. “Carmensita’s caught him under her spell, hook, line and sinker! It warms my heart to see how charming your daughter is. I hope Daisy grows up to be the same!”

Mat’s smile stretched a little wider at his words, feeling perhaps a bit of the day’s stress melt from his shoulders. “Thanks, man,” he said. A pause… “Mm…” He glanced sideways, to the direction of his empty house, just next to Craig’s. “So I uh…” He turned to Brian again, and Brian smiled at him. “Yeah, lemme go and get her.”

“Uh-oh! Oh no,” Brian said in his deep voice, shaking his head as he shifted to block Mat’s path in. “You’re not just gonna come and get her just like that, not on my lawn and in my yard. You look like you need to sit down a bit.” 

Mat thought he needed to sit down forever. 

“Howsabout some tea? I know coffee’s more your thing but this one’s an old Harding recipe, proven and tested through time to relax even a raging bull! No, that was just a hyperbole, we’ve never tested this on animals and we don’t have a ranch as well,” Brian hastened to add when he saw the look on Mat’s face. “Well?” he prompted anyway, raising his fists to his sides. “What do you say?”

Mat wanted to say that he wanted to go home but otherwise felt too embarrassed to say so, after Brian had insisted his hospitality. With a shy smile, he said, “Yeah, sounds great,” and stepped in after his gracious host. 

“How’s the coffee shop going?” Brian had asked him as he served the tea in a vintage china cup with a matching saucer, practically indistinguishable from the rest of the relics that decorated the house. They were lined on shelves and glass cases like an army of memories and grandmothers alongside trophies won from fishing, yard work, whatever else Brian and Keith might be into these days. It was the work of two people with clashing ideas, but as a whole, Mat thought it was charming in a homey kind of way—the kind of mood that would become a line in some nostalgic folk song, maybe. 

“It’s…going,” he answered, wrapping his hands around the warm cup, watching the steam rise off the pale yellow drink. “Well, I’m trying to make it go faster,” he added, scratching his forehead, “Rosa’s excited to see it, but there’s only so much I can do, y’know? And we’re not…exactly…comfortable right now.” 

“Hmm…” Brian ran his hand over his scruffy beard, leaning back on his chair. “If you don’t mind, I could take a look at it.”

“What?” Mat asked, looking up. 

“Just if you don’t mind,” Brian repeated, shrugging. “I won’t be intrusive, I promise.”

“Hey now, you know that’s not what I think,” Mat hastened to assure him. “And I’m really grateful that you offered but…I mean, I don’t wanna get in the way, man. You’re probably really busy right now.”

“Busy twiddling my thumbs, you mean?” Brian chuckled, his round belly bouncing with his cheer. “You might not ask, but I’m still waiting on a client to give me the go signal! There’s literally nothing on my schedule right now aside from Monster Fish: Mobster Edition and Daisy’s feeding times. You’d be doing me a huge favor, actually.” He raised his meaty hands, waving them. “These hands aren’t made for idle times!” 

“Wouldn’t Keith mind?” 

“Keith? He’d probably get a kick out of it if we told him! It’d give him an excuse to make a few calls, get in touch with some friends.”

“Okay…” Mat said… “But…” Uneasy, he tugged at his hair, avoiding Brian’s eyes. “I don’t know how I can pay you…” 

“Ahh, that’s nothing. Keith and I’d be happy to do it for a Dad in need!”

“You sure?” 

“Yeah!” Brian said, smiling. “Just promise me we’ll get permanent bragging rights and discounts when it opens.”

“Sounds like a plan, dude,” Mat agreed, finally beaming along. “Thanks, Brian. You’re a friend indeed,” he said, extending a hand. 

“A Dad indeed!” 

They laughed. 

“I can’t wait to tell Rosa.”

“Aw, shucks,” Brian giggled. “How is she?” 

“She’s umm…” Weak. Very sick. There was no sense hiding it from Brian who must have wanted to cheer Mat up a little with talks of the future coffee shop but Mat didn’t want to spoil the mood—or at least try. These days, that was all he could do. “She’s okay, she’s…she’s resting right now,” he said after a moment. “I’ll see her again tomorrow.”

Brian nodded. “Send her my regards, won’t ya?” There wasn’t much else for him to say. 

“Yeah, I will,” Mat promised him, smiling a little. When silence fell between them again, he finally remembered his tea which was still thankfully warm. He took a sip. “Hmm,” he said, eying the cup. “I’m tasting chamomile, lemon…berries and milk?”

“Just a bit. And it’s lemongrass. The blueberry’s my little twist, though,” Brian laughed sheepishly. “Man, nothing escapes your tongue, does it?” 

“Is it a secret recipe?” Mat asked, taking another sip. This time, he tasted the milk more clearly. 

“Nah,” Brian waved at him, shifting more comfortably in his chair. “The thing about Harding family recipes is it’s not in the ingredients. It’s in the way we do them.” He winked at Mat. Mat smiled. “Care for another?” 

Mat agreed. 

They shared recipes over the next cup, both the old and the new, the ones that had been passed down from kitchen to kitchen and the ones that would make it to the coffee shop’s menu. After that, it was time to go home. 

Mat offered to wash his cup until Brian stole it and magicked it away. “I’ll go and get Carmensita,” Brian said, excusing himself. 

“Wait,” Mat said quickly, rising to his feet. “Let me do it.”

They went up the stairwell as quietly as they could. Mat caught Keith peeking out of his office, a lithe bespectacled man with thick, black hair, and said hello quickly. Past it, Brian stopped next to another door and opened it. He stood back while Mat stepped in carefully. 

On the single bed was Carmensita, limbs splayed, lips slightly open so Mat could hear her snoring softly. A child free of care. She made him jealous and scared—if Rosa left, how was he supposed to look after her on his own without breaking her spirit? He wanted her to keep her youth, to enjoy it. 

She was still in her dress, her long shorts and her rainbow socks although her pigtails had since come undone. Mat retrieved her sneakers from the floor before he leaned down and carefully picked her up. Carmensita stirred and groaned, her arms moving instinctively around his neck. “Come on, sweetheart. It’s time to go home.”

“Mama?” she mumbled sleepily, laying her cheek on Mat’s shoulder. 

“We’ll see her tomorrow,” Mat promised her. He thanked Brian on his way out and Keith who held the front door open for him. The couple waved at him from their yard and he waved back a little with Carmensita’s shoes. He heard the door close behind him as he passed Craig’s house. 

For what felt like 15 minutes, he stood in front of his, trying to wrestle with his keys and the lock. Eventually, he managed open it, but not without dropping Carmensita’s shoes.

⚘

After spending an inordinate amount of time washing dishes, checking on the food, pacing the kitchen and pulling at his clothes, Mat finally decided to make a reappearance for his guests. Immediately after stepping out to the shop, he regretted ever having had the courage.

There wasn’t nearly as much people as he and Rosa had initially planned for for their opening night but there was still far too many faces for his jittering nerves. His hands felt cold all of a sudden, like his blood had suddenly turned to icy water even when he closed his fists and stuffed them in his jacket. But under it, he felt moist with sweat, as if there were a thousand lights beaming down on him. He briefly considered shucking off his blazer if he just didn’t feel naked walking around in only a shirt, from the last tour of _Stillness the Dancing_ , and a pair of well-loved jeans. So he kept it on. And suffered. 

“Mat!” 

He felt paralyzed when he turned to the voice, like a prey resigning himself to his end. That it was Brian, looking jolly in spite of his black polo top, did little to reassure him but he knew it could have been much worse. “Hey—” His voice broke. He coughed and cleared his throat. “Hey, dude,” he tried again, finally approaching. 

“Congratulations on your opening day!” Brian said, clasping hands with the newly-minted barista of Maple Bay. “Although…I wish it had happened on better circumstances.” 

And so did Mat. In that second, he found solidarity in Brian’s sad smile. 

“How are you holding up?” he asked; Brian had such a voice that fitted his size, it was difficult for him to keep it down although he still tried. 

“I’m…” Mat began, but only for the sake of it. Once again, he felt a pang of realization that he was alone in this world now, and that his arms felt strangely, uncomfortably empty without his wife beside him. A sharp pain cut across his chest when he drew in a deep breath, and it was all he could do not to cry again. 

“I could be better,” he breathed, surprised by how capable he was of honesty at his fragile state. 

“We could all be better,” Brian sympathized, raising a big hand to his shoulder to squeeze it. Mat couldn’t help but sniffle. “I’m very sorry for your loss, buddy.”

“Thanks,” he whispered. He didn’t even know know if that was the proper response anymore. 

“How’s Carmensita?” 

“She’s mmm…” Mat trailed off again, looking around the coffee shop for his daughter. He found her in one of the booths, dressed in a somber shirt, skirt and leggings, surrounded by children her age, all from the neighborhood. The table was full of leftovers and spills. The girl had pulled her knees up, looking dejectedly at her barely touched plate. When she turned to see her dad looking at her, she tensed and immediately turned her attention to the wall beside her. Mat felt his heart deflate for no good reason. 

“She’s a strong kid,” he said, anyway, facing Brian again. “She likes to stay strong for me. She never lets me see her cry. I think she thinks that if I don’t see her cry, I wouldn’t be crying either. It doesn’t work, of course,” Mat sniffled, raising his glasses to wipe his eyes with a thumb. “I see her crying everyday since we lost her mother. I just pretend not to.”

“Aw,” Brian said, arms on his sides, a little smile still on his face. “She’s a great kid, Mat.”

“Thanks,” Mat replied, oblivious to the frantic ringing of bells, like some retro telephone. It ended when Brian slipped out his phone from his pocket to answer the call. “Hey, yep, I’m on my way. Okay, I’ll meet you there.” He hung up, holding onto his mobile. 

“Keith just got back from a client call. I’ll be right back, just gonna fetch him from the house.”

“No problem, man,” Mat said, nodding him off.

Brian was a black blot making his way past the sparse crowd with polite excuse-mes, quickly attached by thank-yous. He stopped briefly to speak with Rosa’s sister in the company of the Cahns, Craig and Ashley, the only one of his late wife’s relations who could make it down to Maple Bay, and then he was out the door. 

“Boo,” someone growled. 

Mat turned to find the shorter man behind him, arms crossed, back against the empty cake display, glaring at him from under his brows. He looked and smelled like he’d just come bursting out of his closet after being trapped at the back of it for months in search of appropriate black clothes, as appropriate as leather jackets may be. Mat smiled, trying not to look so tired. “Hey, Robert.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Mat raised his hands. 

“You were supposed to scream,” Robert snarled. 

“What?” Mat sputtered. 

Robert sighed and rolled his eyes. “You must be fun at haunted houses.”

“Sorry dude, I’m just,” Mat scratched his head, “just out of it.”

He’d missed Robert’s vague look of guilt, although it had only flashed across his eyes. “Relax, I’m just playin’ with ya.” He nodded to the coffee shop past Mat’s shoulder, the biggest movement he’d made since he parked himself by the display case. “Nice place. Like the sconces.”

“That was Brian’s idea,” Mat shared, smiling slightly at them. They were like vases installed at the corner, carrying roses where someone might expect light. He liked it, too. And so had Rosa when he showed her the finished product. 

“Good ol’ Brian,” Robert said. When Mat fell silent again, he finally roused himself and clapped the bigger man on his shoulder steering him back to the direction of the kitchen. “Come on,” he growled. “Let’s brew me something strong, shake those nerves off. There’s something I read online that 50 shots of espresso is enough to give a man a heart attack and I wanna try it out.”

Robert’s words would no doubt put the fear and the uncertainty in anyone’s heart, as many of his were wont to, but Mat would never admit that he was glad for the excuse to hide again.

⚘

A slap on his arm, and he was back in Jim n’ Kim’s.

Before that, he’d been at home, dancing with his wife like they had the night they moved into their house in the cul de sac, although the living room looked like the coffee shop and a crowd was cheering as he spun her. Carmensita was also there, but mostly she gave way for the both of them. 

Now alone, and definitely not at home, Mat spent another minute sitting rigidly in confusion, staring at the bottles across of him at the other side of the bar. He wondered where his wife was, and remembered he’d left her in the hospital with their daughter. Carmensita wanted to sleepover in her mother’s room and he and Rosa had agreed to pretend to let her. Later on, he would come to pick her up, hopefully when she was already asleep. How he was going to pull it off, Mat didn’t know. He simply had no energy to think about these things anymore. Rosa would have known how to do it—she would always tell him, _I’ll take care of it,_ and reassure him with a wink. Life was so much easier with Rosa by his side… 

“Rise and shine, brother,” the hand told him, landing two more friendly pats on his back for good measure. “Geez Louise, you spent the entire night here? It’s 6AM.”

“It’s six-what?!” Mat demanded in a panic, whipping around to Robert hoisting himself up the stool. 

Robert raised his wrist to Mat. “Six AM. Six hours past midnight.” His watch was hidden under the sleeve of his leather jacket, though. And Mat wasn’t in any good mindset to question its existence as soon as his friend had made his point. “Got to hand it to ya. Only other thing I know to fall asleep sitting up is a telepathic duck living in the lake near here. Cryptids, I tell ya.”

“Ugh, give it a rest, will ya?” said a woman, snorting as she flanked Mat’s other side. Black hair, cut short to her shoulders, in a long dress with only a crucifix as her accessory but the expression on her face—the scowl, the rolling eyes—would put anyone on their guard before they demanded to see her rosary. “He’s only half-kidding, Mat.”

“Thanks for the clarification, Mary.”

Robert half-lunged at the man between him and the woman so that he jumped back, eying him closely. “Or am I?” 

“Robert, I’m very tired tonight.”

“Hey, so you still know what time it is!” Robert slapped him with the back of his hand on his sleeve. “Proud of you.” Mat smiled uneasily. 

“So what’s in the bottle, sailor?” Without waiting for Mat’s response, moreso his permission, Mary tipped his bottle to her and raised it to her lips. He’d completely forgotten about that, by the way. “Mm, beer. Filthy,” she said, in spite of having finished it. She slid it past Mat, over to Robert’s place. “Let’s get started. I’m thirsty.”

“Hey, Thirsty. I’m Dad.”

“Don’t you…! Ugh, you’re disgusting, Bobert.”

Robert snickered at Mary’s disappointment, and for what may be the first time in a week, Mat wanted to laugh. But still too weary to let himself loose, he settled for an appreciative smile and a fist bump with his fellow Dad—news that took him by surprise when Rosa had told him. Robert knocked on the wood then and raised three fingers to the bartender. “Whiskey,” he summoned. 

Like a magic spell, three glasses landed right in front of them right when they needed it, half full with the golden elixir. They each picked it up, Mat a little uncertainly. 

Until Robert had raised his glass, saying, “To Rosa’s health.” Mat’s tolerance for alcoholism was nowhere near his or Mary’s on a bad day but he downed that spirit like a fish, believing in the toast like a superstition. Fire burned at his throat, drawing a line to his chest. He coughed. He’d barely blinked away the tears in his eyes when his glass was already replaced by another one. 

“That’s the stuff.” Robert hissed and whooped. “Let’s toast to Mary’s marriage next.”

“You up for the challenge?” Mary quipped and Robert guffawed.

Mat tried to catch on with a little awkward smile of his own but he was still working on his first whiskey, which was probably mixing badly with the beer he’d drunk earlier on. With a sudden panic, racing them to the next toast which was surely only the start of a series of headaches, he groaned, “Hold up, I’m going back to the hospital tonight.”

He couldn’t explain the relief he felt when Robert said, “Some other time, then.” Mary made a face and pushed her glass to Robert’s direction again so she could order a glass of wine. Her friend happily accepted. It all felt natural between the two of them who must have gone through several alcoholic rodeos together to know the moves, but Mat couldn’t help but feel that he was getting in the way of an otherwise pleasant evening, and not only because he was seated in the middle of two good friends. 

“Hey, I mean,” he spoke up suddenly, throwing a shrug in because why not? “Don’t let me stop you folks, I’m happy to be here with you. But I’m just gonna hold on to my drink.”

“That’s not the way you do toasts,” Robert grumbled, raising his glass to look at the liquid through the light. His glass, not Mary’s previous one which was now empty. “Toasts, it’s all or nothing. Everyone either does it or doesn’t. There’s no in-between and there’s no try, only do—like a sacred vow.”

“I’ve heard that joke before,” Mary snorted. 

“Ha!” Robert laughed. Mat said nothing. 

“Don’t listen to the alky on your left, sailor. He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Mary advised, putting her left hand on Mat’s forearm, her wedding band cold on his skin. “Listen to the one on your right.” Which would be her. Robert laughed again. “Take it easy tonight. You’ve got a long one ahead of you and you need a break. When was the last time you looked in the mirror? I’m surprised your wife and daughter still even recognize you.”

“I got two words for you, Mary:” Robert interrupted. “True love. We don’t have that.”

“I got two words for you, Smalls:” Mary answered with an upright middle finger. “Fuck off.”

“Hey now, don’t break your friendship over my good looks,” Mat chuckled. “There are worse things in the world.” Like sickness. Mounting debts, bills to pay. A crippling sense of self-doubt. His daughter crying, too young to understand why Mama can’t come home yet. Tomorrow and the ones that would follow it, each one of them an exact replica of today. 

He felt suddenly as if he’d lived through all of them, with more to count. Days that drag, endless nights where even the slightest of hopes become a punishment. It’s all too much for a single man to carry on his own two shoulders and it drained him. 

Mat laid his glass onto the countertop and massaged his eyes, his head, his face. More of this night and he didn’t know how much longer he could live through them. “She had a procedure,” he began suddenly, even when he felt embarrassed for bringing the spotlight right back to his wife when it was so obvious that neither wanted to talk about her but neither raised a protest either. “It uh…it went well. I think.” He peeled his hands from his face, one of them touching the arm of his glasses, seeking something to play with. “The hospital agreed that we could settle the balance in the future. But Rosa’s…” He sniffled, closing his eyes. “…very tired. The procedure was too much for her. She’s just…lying on her bed, doing nothing. Just staring up the ceiling, at the walls. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t talk. I’ve been asking her if there’s anything I can do to make her feel better but she just shakes her head and I’m scared that,” he choked, pressing his eyes to the heels of his palms, “it’s because she thinks there’s nothing I can do because I’m not strong enough for her. And I think she’s right. And I’m too scared to try because I don’t know what I’ll do if I fail. Now I don’t know if she even knows how much I love her and it scares me to think how she never will,” he gasped, hiding his face, “Because I just wasted all the time we had together when I could have been the man she truly deserves.” 

“Are you shitting me?” Mary spat just when he had finally broken down, which was in itself not a first but normally he didn’t have an audience for that. Robert parked a hand on his shoulder for whatever it was worth. “She’s batshit _crazy_ about you! Half the pictures she shows me on her phone is you literally doing anything and the other half’s you and your little girl. You know, when I told you both to get a pet, I wasn’t joking. I already had this basset hound packed up and waiting to go.”

“Why, so he could name it You-Ain’t-Nothing-But-A?” Robert protested. 

“To be fair, I would have named it Cassette Hound,” Mat mumbled. 

“That’s even uglier, you don’t deserve points,” Robert snapped. Now Mat had formed his fist in a prayer with his eyes closed, trying to take control of his emotions again so he could only hear Robert order him something to drink. “Hey, Neil,” he’d said, “get this guy something to drink.”

Mat opened his eyes to see a stout glass filled with clear liquid waiting for him next to his untouched whiskey. He flung his hands up in surprise, as if it was on fire. “Hey dude, I don’t think I’m ready to drown my regrets in a shot of vodka yet.”

“It’s water,” Robert explained, meeting Mat dead in the eye. 

“That doesn’t mean anything coming from you, you once left a note to yourself to drink the hangover medicine and the glass of water on your bedside table the next morning and it turned out to be vodka.”

“Oh yeah? Wanna bet?” Rising to the challenge, Robert squared his shoulders and snatched up the glass to gulp it down in one go.

“That doesn’t count,” Mat protested. 

“You think I cheated?” Robert snarled. 

“I think you’d have done the same with vodka.”

“…yeah, that’s a fair point.”

Mary laughed. 

The distraction had been a good one; Mat was surprised to feel better after it, capable enough to even order his own glass of water. Or maybe it was the crying. He drank it, sip by sip, taking his time to recollect himself before he dared to speak. In the meantime, Robert pleaded—as much as Robert could plead—for Mary to share a girly drink with him. 

“If you throw up all over my dress again, I’m going to burn your leather jacket,” Mary warned. 

“Duly noted,” Robert agreed. 

Something that looked chemically pink, split in two smaller glasses, came up to the pair of drinking buddies. Robert whispered a sweet ode to his liver while Mary groaned. 

After Mat had finished his glass of water and asked for another, he finally said, “Man, I’m such a mess right now, I’m sorry.”

“Welcome to the club,” Mary replied. 

Mat chuckled. “Got any tips for a greenhorn?” he asked, raising the second glass to his lips. 

“You planning on staying messed up?” Robert replied. “Then buckle down, we’re in for a long night—hey who?”

“Mat Sella? Right?” 

All of a sudden, there was a man blocking his view from Robert, and Mat visibly tensed. He looked younger by some years, and clean in the way that came with a man who spent his money on his clothes and his musk. Mary let out a generous sneeze. 

“From _Stillness_ ,” he persisted, eyes set on Mat’s as if he was trying to read his mind. “Husband and wife duo, Mat and Ro—” 

“Yeah, right on,” Mat said in a haste, extending a hand grasped firmly. He hoped he wasn’t sweating just then. “How’s it going tonight?” 

“Good! Yeah, it’s good, I’m just here with my girlfriend, she’s over there.” The man pointed back to one of the booths nearer to the wall where a young lady sat alone with a bucket of beer bottles. From his angle, she was half-hidden by the long seat across of her but even without that, Mat could tell that she was trying to remain invisible from the attention although she couldn’t look away from them either, like someone attracted to train wrecks. He certainly hoped this wasn’t about to be a train wreck. He raised his glass in polite greeting. He realized too late it had water in it, which was decidedly not cool. 

“Oh man, you have no idea…” the younger man went on, snatching Mat’s attention again. He put down his glass before he dropped it or spilled its contents on him. “I mean, my girlfriend and I met at one of your shows!” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah, and we’ve been together ever since. We went to a lot of ‘em together until the farewell concert. I mean, your entire discography’s our damn love story, y’know?” the man laughed, blushing a little at his confession. Mat laughed along, feeling more comfortable even as Robert practically laid himself across the countertop to stare at Mary across of him, but he missed this stuff—hearing how much their songs meant to people, how it changed their lives. He wished Rosa were here to hear this, she would have been thrilled. And charming. And happy. “We sing your songs back and forth, the ones where you and your wife sing a duet.”

“Well, that’s really cool, man. That’s really cool.” Mat extended his hand to the younger man again who seized it and shook it hard. “Thank you for making us a part of your lives.”

“Thank _you_ , Sir!” he gasped like he was breathless. He glanced quickly behind to his girlfriend who smiled uneasily back to him. Mat felt nervous again. Was it a premonition? “Hey actually,” the younger man turned back to Mat who was still smiling his cool rockstar smile. “We’re here to celebrate by girlfriend’s birthday. If you could…I mean…well she’s a really big fan of yours so I was so wondering if maybe you could sing happy birthday to her?” And Mat visibly _paled_. Him? Sing? To a stranger in a bar with many other strangers? Now? _Him? Now? Him?_ He wasn’t Rosa. Rosa would have done this in a heartbeat but…Rosa wasn’t here. And he wasn’t Rosa. 

“O, oh!” Mat laughed, throwing his hands a little just to hide their shaking. “I, umm…” He wanted to throw Robert, hell even Neil a look screaming S. O. S. but the fan was dominating his entire view. Mary did throw him a line when she groaned out a loud and tired, “Oh my God…” but it was obvious by now that the younger man wasn’t taking hints. Because he wasn’t. “Umm…” Mat tried again, even shrugging to keep looking cool. “I think that sounds great, man.”

“Great!” 

“But I uhh…” Mat felt cold, trying not to wince. “I’m not…it hasn’t been a great couple of days for me, I’m not…” He tossed another hand. “In proper fitness, if you get what I mean.”

“Oh, okay.”

Mat almost sighed in relief. 

“It’s just a happy birthday song, though.”

“Hey Neil, can you believe this guy?” Robert asked from behind said guy. “Says he’s a fan but doesn’t know what the word means.”

Mat felt like his entire soul had just gone running out of his body when the fan turned to Robert, finally noticing him, and demanded, “You talking about me, Sir?”

“Hey, hey, hey, no need to get upset, it’s okay.” Mat wished he knew what he was saying but he was at this point where his tongue had seized control of his brain, fighting fire. When the man turned with a glare to him, he immediately felt small and stupid for stepping up. “Look umm. I uhh…” He looked over his shoulder. Catching his plea for help, Mary pointedly opened her sleek purse and began reapplying lipstick. “I’m with friends. Right? And we, uh, we have to be somewhere now and I didn’t bring my guitar. So…uh, why don’t I just buy you guys a drink, what’s she like to drink? I’m sorry man, I’ll call Neil over.”

“But I wanted a song,” the younger man complained, frowning and by now red with something that is definitely not embarrassment. “Shit, know what, nevermind. Thanks for treating your fans like shit, man.”

“H, hey now—” 

“All I wanted was a song, man. It’s not even for me, it’s for my girlfriend who’s a really huge fan of you. And after all I did to defend you from those haters saying you weren’t much without your wife.” Full of disappointment, the man shook his head as he left. 

Well, Mat thought, watching him go, they weren’t wrong. Even now, he felt sick in his stomach—the relief of not having to put himself in front of strangers mingling with the bitter taste of his familiar incapacity. The world felt eerily quiet and feverish after that, as if _everyone_ was looking at him and pretending not to and he couldn’t look back to them either, rigid with fear of what he might see. 

“Hey, uh,” Mat smiled uneasily at Robert and Mary. “Wanna check out Irish I Were Drinking?” Although there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to be back by his wife’s side now, he didn’t want to go to her feeling like a failure. That was terrible back there… 

“Sure, lemme just offer some apologies,” Robert said, finishing his drink. He rose, and to Mat’s dismay approached the man from earlier, calling his attention with a quiet word and careful hand on his shoulder. The conversation was short—and heartfelt by the way Robert raised a hand to his chest. Then the man rose, and followed him out of the bar. 

“What?” Mat was surprised staring after them and then at Mary checking her makeup by her selfie camera. “He left his girlfriend just like that!” 

Mary shrugged at him. “Men,” was her simple explanation. 

That did nothing to set him at ease. He looked again at the younger man’s booth to see his girlfriend slumping forward with her hands on her face and then her hair. Mat felt the keen prickle of guilt, chastising him for being too self-absorbed when he could have easily avoided this, if only for the young lady’s sake. Mat was suddenly aware of the fact that he was single-handedly responsible for ruining her birthday. 

“I’ll be back,” he said to Mary as they both made to rise. 

“And just where do you think you’re going, sailor?” Mary straightened out her dress.When Mat looked at her dumbly, she explained with a hand on her hip, “A _man’s_ already up and left her to pick up his man pride, what makes you think she’s going to want to talk to another?”

“I gotta apologize to her, Mary.”

“Trust me: that’s not gonna do her shit.”

Mat opened his mouth to protest. 

Before he could get another word out, though, Mary took off, making her way to the distressed girlfriend who righted herself when she heard the older woman coming. Despite himself, Mat decided to stay back and watch his friend slide next to the young lady, completely in control. She introduced herself with a comment about men, as she would. The girl responded with a shaky smile all too familiar to Mat. Off to a great start, he thought. 

He would never have expected to see Mary soon placing a hand at the back of the younger woman though, while she started to cry, giving voice to what must have been long-silenced feelings. Mary hugged her, asked Neil for some water and tissue. Later on, she was on the girl’s phone, probably calling a friend or some relative to come pick her up at the bar. 

Mat felt a keen longing for Rosa all of a sudden. She would have done the same as Mary had, as she always had. There was a reason, after all, why both women had gotten along well. Rosa had always felt responsible over their fans, like a mother to her children, and she was an expert in seeking out those who were troubled or in trouble. Was it any wonder that so many of their fans loved them because of her? Not to Mat, who loved her for the same reasons and more. 

Mary rose soon, moving patiently with the emotional woman, walking with her to the door. She came back alone after, heading straight for Mat. Finally he smiled and said, “Thanks, Proud Mary.”

“Buy me a drink and we’ll call it square.”

Mat smirked. Classic Mary. He called for Neil’s attention to put in an order for a G&T. 

Which went out the door when it slammed open, and in came Robert dragging in—

“Holy shit!” Mat panicked when he recognized the younger man from earlier, only a bit bloodier and bruised up now. He’d come stumbling in with his front shirt wrung up around Robert’s fist. “Holy shit, what did you do, man?!” 

“Offered my apologies,” Robert snarled out his explanation. Mary stepped back and away before any of that blood could get to her dress. Shit, Robert’s nose was bleeding! “He didn’t accept, though, so I crammed it down his throat. We’re friends now.”

“That’s,” Mat pointed a shaking finger to the poor man in Robert’s grasp. “That’s not what being friends look like, he looks like…” Shit, but wasn’t he partly responsible for this? 

“Ugh, Smalls, you look like a disgrace,” Mary groaned. Too bad Mat couldn’t make a Queen joke just then. 

“I can fix that,” Robert said. With one powerful tug that no one would have expected from a man his size, and ultimately, Mat figured that was the source of the younger man’s misery right now, he dragged him down to his knees with a slam that filled the bar. Mat heard Neil wince over his shoulder. Yes, that would leave two more bruises in the morning. Against his better judgment, he scanned the rest of the establishment in time to catch the other patrons whipping away and back to their hands. Mat had to do something about this… 

He turned to Robert, extending both hands to him. “Hey dude, look—” 

“Apologize,” Robert commanded of the younger man, stunning Mat into silence again. When he refused, Robert shook him harder and yelled out, “Apologize!!” 

“Hey man, it’s cool, it’s cool! It’s all good,” Mat laughed nervously. To the mumbling man, mostly for Robert’s sake, he said, “I forgive you, it’s all good now. Hey Neil,” he practically pleaded for the bartender’s attention. He was achieving a vocal pitch much higher than he ever had in his entire musical career. “Could you get us a towel here—”

“ _Louder!_ ” Robert roared. 

“I’m sorry!”

“I forgive you!!” Mat replied with equal urgency, taking Robert’s instruction for his own. He stared at the man with a silent demand if he was satisfied. 

To his great relief, he was. Robert unwound the man’s shirt from his fist and Mat started to breathe again. “Good,” was his judgment. He bent low with a finger out. Mat positioned himself to drag the man back up before he got violent again. “Now the next time I hear you speaking about your mom like that again, apologizing will be the _least_ of your concerns.” Neil’s towel materialized finally—the man had held it out at a distance. Robert grabbed it and threw it to the man’s face. “Now scram!” 

They watched the poor man bolt in silence stumbling out the door, overbalancing then disappearing into the night. Robert broke the solemnity with a, “Shit!” and grabbed another towel for himself, pressing it to his face. “Fuck, he ruined my favorite shirt.”

“You ruined his face!” Mat cried. 

“I taught him a lesson,” Robert corrected him, taking Mat’s seat so he could reach the glass of whisky he’d failed to drink. “It’s a very thin line but it’s important not to cross it.” He downed the drink in one gulp. 

“ _You’re_ telling _me_ that?” Mat gasped, incredulous and staring but Robert didn’t reply. 

“Okay, whatever, I’m out,” Mary said, throwing her hands up. “The night’s too young for this. I’ll see you in the morning, loser. You coming with?”

It took Mat some time to realize she was talking to him. He had to look back to Robert for his ideas only to see him nursing another glass of whisky. For the pain, he figured. “Uh, yeah. I gotta head back to the hospital, Rosa’s waiting for me.” Because what else was he supposed to say, how could these people just be so casual about what just happened, two people fought and got hurt!! “Uhhh…you gonna be good, man?” He knew there was something else, something better? More thoughtful? That he could have said but he just wanted to get out of there now before something worse happened. 

Robert raised a thumb up. “I’m drunk. I’m peachy as I can be.”

“Okay…” Mat still wasn’t sure but Robert wasn’t a child now so he didn’t ask again. He wondered if he ought to thank him for what he’d done too but decided that no one should be congratulated for violence, so he didn’t. “I’ll see ya, then.” Mat waved. 

Robert waved back. Before he and Mary could step out of the bar, though, he called Mat’s attention again and raised a glass to his turning face. 

“To you and Rosa,” he said, and knocked the shot back.

⚘

He caught Mary stepping out the back of the shop from the open door of the kitchen, one hand holding her cigarette case, the other a plastic lighter that refused to work. Mat turned to Robert to signal her plight but he seemed more interested in his search for Stevia. He did glare at Mat when he caught him staring before he glanced at Mary through the doorway and returned his gaze to Mat. Apparently, that was Robertese for, _That’s Mary-speak for, “I want to talk to you alone, nerd.”_ Packets of Stevia in hand, he carried them out of the kitchen, back to the shop, with his regular brew.

Mat exited the kitchen then, one hand in his pocket, producing a sleek, old lighter he’d flicked on for Mary’s benefit. Mary pecked at it faster than a hungry bird, keeping her cigarette steady between her lips until she was puffing out familiarly. “Thanks, Sailor,” she sighed, extracting the roll from her mouth. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Don’t mention it, Proud Mary.”

Mary smirked, cigarette down, dancing a little in her full black dress to keep out the cold. “You picking up the habit, then?” she asked, nodding to the device in Mat’s hand. 

Mat looked down to it, at the carved roses on the body, its paint long since faded. It was a cheap thing he bought off a gas station (ironic, yes) back in the days of the band, purely for recreational (medicinal, as some might even argue) purposes but mostly also because of the design because he had the biggest crush on his future wife, then. With a little smile, he shook his head, and slipped his memento back in his pocket. “I’m a changed man,” he said. “What would my daughter say if she caught me lighting a joint?” 

“Can I try it?” Mary supplied. It took Mat a second to realize that she was supposing that was what Carmensita would say. She smiled when he laughed but her pallor, her weary eyes were too heavy to be cheered up. Of all the tax-paying residents of the cul de sac, Mat felt he could sympathize with her the best in this tragedy. 

She picked up her cigarette and pulled, blew out the smoke in a steady stream, turning away. “You know, Rosa and I promised each other we’d stop smoking,” she shared suddenly, looking down to her sandals. “Of course we said that while we were smoking.” Mat chuckled. She smiled. Mat could still see it in his head—the two women at the back of the bar after a show, surrounding a small round table topped by bottles and glasses each with a stick in hand or passing a joint. It was a friendship discovered and raised in bars. Mary had seemed lonely, then, and Rosa wanted a girl friend, someone she could share her secrets with. They were both wives, soon mothers, and they both found comfort in the dim lights, the throbbing walls, the chatter, the anonymity of bars. 

Mary raised her cigarette to Mat. “This is going to be my last. After tonight, I’m flushing all of it down the toilet.”

“Careful you don’t go too fast.”

“Watch me,” Mary said, pulling from her joint. “Go big or go home.” Mat smiled again. 

They stood in silence, Mary smoking, Mat’s eyes wandering, trying to ignore the awkwardness. They could hear the quiet chatter of polite grievers from the front, and a little closer, someone stepping out to take a call. 

Mary raised her shoe and ground her cigarette on her heel like an expert. She tossed the spent stick into the bin by the door, then regarded Mat with a silent look, which Mat responded to with another tired smile. She raised her arms then, and embraced her friend’s widower. 

She was shorter than him and had to lift her heels a little to reach his shoulders. Mat stooped slightly to catch her, hugging her back. 

“Rosa made me promise to look after you the last time we spoke,” Mary whispered, hand on his hair. “I’m going to try. I’m sorry, Mat.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he said. He’d lost his wife, she’d lost one of her only friends. 

She stepped back, smoothed down her dress, and without another word, turned and walked back to the kitchen, tossing her cigarette case and lighter to the trash. Anyway, he thought, the lighter wasn’t working anymore. He heard the scratch of approaching feet after her, and turned to see Hugo coming in from the side. 

“Okay, let me know when you’ve landed. Okay?” Hugo was saying to his phone, hunched slightly, one hand plugging an ear. “Okay, safe flight. I love you.” He ended the call, and looked up to see Mat approaching with a tiny smile. 

“Jamie?” Mat asked, hands in his pockets. 

“Yes,” Hugo said, looking slightly embarrassed. “Just called to ask if you got the flowers.”

Smiling still, Mat nodded. 

Hugo returned the look. “How are you?” he asked. Another polite question. 

Mat appreciated it all the same. “Managing,” he said, going through a list of diplomatic answers he’d prepared in his head. 

Hugo nodded, because what else was there to do? “You know,” he began suddenly, running his fingers over his chin and his mustache. “This reminds me of the first day I visited Rosa in the hospital, and she told me something I would never forget.” He looked up to Mat, as if to make sure that he was listening. “That morning, I asked her how she was doing. And she told me, you know, Hugo. This might sound cheesy, but I feel grate.”

Mat laughed suddenly, surprising even himself but he couldn’t stop it. He threw his head back, barked out in good cheer. Hugo joined him in a true celebration of his wife’s memory. It was one of Rosa’s proudest moments, he was sure. Rosa’s skill with puns and words was such that it could compete with his, how else could she have written all those heartwarming, gut-wrenching, tear-jerking and swoon-inducing songs? He missed her, now more than ever. 

“Come on, let’s get inside,” Hugo said, taking Mat by the shoulders to walk with him back to the shop.

⚘

Hugo’s flowers, freshly picked from Damien’s garden, laid forgotten on the white floor as the nurses rushed in, raising voices over the monotone of the piercing flat line. Hands batted him away from his wife, but ultimately it was Hugo’s grasp that dragged him, practically wrestling him out of the bedroom, into the long, empty hallway where his struggles echoed in futility.

“Wait!” Mat cried, as he tried to get a grip on Hugo’s hands but the man knew what he was doing and he was… 

He was…he didn’t know. Just moments ago, he knew he had been happy. Rosa had wanted some private moment with her husband so she sent Hugo away, short of waggling her brows, and they’d laughed. She’d asked Mat to lie down next to her, where they sang one of their duets, fingers dancing, foreheads touching. She held his face, her weak hand tracing well-remembered lines and he let her. He let her sing one more time for him, the last verse of _A Song For You_ by The Carpenters—but he never realized what it was she was telling him. Not until the words had stopped, and she’d closed her eyes. And there was nothing else left but the endless crying of the machines—and his own. 

Hugo had been outside, waiting to be let back in when it happened. He was the first to burst through the door, the first to call for help. Now he was bracing his thick hands onto Mat’s shoulders as he scrabbled for purchase, telling him over and over, “It’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay!!”

“My wife is in there!” Mat pleaded senselessly, finally catching Hugo’s forearms but the strength had left him when hysteria took over. “Let me go, I need to be with her. Rosa!!”

“It’s going to be okay. Mat! Look at me. Mat, look at me!” Hugo grabbed his chin and redirected the man’s fragmented attention back to his face, as if he were one of his kids in school. “It’s going to be okay,” he repeated patiently, cupping Mat’s jaw, the back of his neck, as gently as he could, as if the emergency didn’t exist. “The doctors are going to look after her, it’s gonna be fine. Mat, look at me.” He pushed his head back again to his direction. Eying him closely, he added, “She’s gonna be fine.”

“But she needs me, man,” Mat pleaded, voice cracking. “I need to be in there, what if she needs me! I’m her husband, I gotta be with my wife.”

“You have to let them do their jobs—Mat. Mat!” Grabbing and pulling, Mat had managed to break free from his hold only for Hugo to catch him with his arms, trapping him in a bear hug he would never have expected of the man, putting them chest to chest. Mat cried something but he no longer knew what he was saying. “They’re doing all that they can. It’s gonna be okay.”

“I need to be in there, _Hugo_ ,” Mat snarled, pushing and twisting but Hugo’s arms had no weakness, not even when he pressed his hand at the back of his head. Mat didn’t want the comfort, it scared him. He’d never given up before and he can’t give up now. What would Carmensita say? “Hugo, please, I’m not gonna get in the way, I just need to be inside, promise!” 

“What’s happening?” 

Mat hadn’t expected to see the Christiansens tonight but there they were running down the hallway, Mary racing ahead of her husband. Hugo extended a hand to the woman. On cue, Joseph grabbed for her—and Mary didn’t fight him. Mat felt sick. 

“Hugo, what’s happening?” Joseph asked again. 

“The doctor is in there,” Hugo answered, quick on his feet as always. A phone rang. Hugo turned to Mat, taking him by his shoulders again. “It’s going to be fine, Mat. It’s gonna be okay.”

“Mary, it’s your phone. Mary—” 

Mary chucked her mobile phone at her husband and made for the open door to Rosa’s bedroom. Mat had been about to follow her in but she’d stopped and turned instead to him. 

“Damien, hi—Damien, it’s Joseph.” He could be heard clearly even as he walked further down the hallway, as a man would if he were trying to keep the conversation private. “Don’t come up here yet. It’s umm…” There was a pause where he stuttered. “It’s not looking good.”

Mary came up to Mat, a desperate question in her eyes though by the looks of her, she already knew the answer. Without another word, they hugged each other. 

“What happened?” Mary mumbled to his ear. 

“I don’t know,” Mat said, his voice feeble. He tightened his arms around her. “W, we were just singing and then…and then she…” He couldn’t say it. 

Mary didn’t ask him to. She only stepped back, and left Mat for Rosa’s door. Like a sheep, he followed after her, step for step, stopping as she had, lingering by the doorway as he watched the scrubs and the coats huddle over his wife’s supine form, completely blocking his view. He felt like choking on his own tongue, he’d never been more frightened in his whole life. _Please, Rosa,_ he prayed in silence, wringing his hands, shifting on his feet. _Please, Rosa, we need you. Carmensita and I need you!_ But he’d never felt more hopeless, more helpless, until then. 

He would never be able to describe how he felt, watching his wife’s life slip away just like that, without doing anything, with nothing he could do. The noise shifted, the energy dying slowly, like the patter of rainfall, while the monotone of the machine reigned over everything. He would never know how he managed to stay on his feet, when he wanted nothing more than to collapse there and then when the doctor called out, “Time.”

Mary made a noise, stumbling back, her hands on her mouth. From the corner of his eyes, Mat could see Joseph catching her, Hugo turning to look at him but by then, he was already too far gone to make any sensible reaction. Like a ghost, or a shell of his former self, hollow and paper thin. “Mat,” Hugo said, “I…I’m sorry.” But Mat ignored him. 

The doctor came up to meet him, looking gray and solemn after the failed operation. He followed her stupidly with his eyes, his mind completely blank. “Mr. Sella, I’m so sorry,” she said quietly. “We did everything that we could.” And of course they did—Mat believed them. What else could they do? What else could they say? 

He nodded, and accepted her condolences and the hand on his shoulder. When she left, he felt as if the world had abandoned him, even though he wanted nothing more than to be left alone with his wife. Finally. 

They gave him that much, stepping aside as he stumbled in to say one last goodbye. In spite of everything, Rosa looked peaceful, asleep with a trace of a smile on her face. Just as she’d like to be remembered. He knelt on her bedside, leaning low to press a kiss on her forehead as he sang the wedding vow he had composed for her so long ago. It was some time before they asked him to leave. 

Even then, the time he spent with his wife seemed so short. 

Everyone else came up to meet him as he stepped out—the Cahns, the Hardings, Damien, even Robert, whose support and sympathy one could always count on in the strangest of times. It was a shame, he thought as he received their condolences, that of all the nights for everyone in the cul de sac to gather for a surprise visit, it had to be the one night that was also Rosa’s last. 

Everything that followed passed in a haze—the paperwork, the transportation, the goodbyes. Hugo got straight down to business, spearheading the formalities, even getting into an argument with Brian and Craig who thought he was moving too fast, that he ought to think about Mat, too, which Hugo thought was exactly what he was doing—taking care of the meticulous details so he could be left alone to grieve. Damien stepped in to lend Hugo his own voice. 

All the while, Mat sat apart, playing with his wedding ring, staring distraught at wherever there was no face to look back at him. Eventually, Craig, Brian and Robert left. Damien chose to stay for both Hugo and Mary who refused to be among the first to go. 

Joseph wandered over to Mat sitting outside the mortuary, taking the bench space next to him. “They’re about done,” he said, by way of a hello. “Are you okay here? Is there anything I can get you?”

Mat’s smile flickered briefly. He shook his head, sniffling. “She knew I wasn’t ready,” he said suddenly, massaging his eyes. His eyeglasses hung down the collar of his shirt and it had stayed there since he first took it off. Everything was a blur now, but he felt better for it. “She knew I would never be ready,” he went on, half-moaning. “She tried to say goodbye in the best way she could. I should have known—yesterday, she’d let Carmensita stay with her through the night. She must have been saying goodbye to her, too. I should have known!” He choked, starting to sob. 

“It’s not easy to accept these things,” Joseph advised him, taking his shoulder with a solid grip. “And perhaps, it will never be. But the good news is that you are not alone. And you will never be alone to face this journey. If at times you feel like giving up, just pray. The man above will listen.”

Mat had turned in time to see him pointing upwards, looking and smiling at the ceiling. He let out a sudden chuckle. Count on Joseph to bring his devotion here, as well. 

“I know you probably think it’s funny and weird that I’m telling you these things now, maybe it’s even annoying.” Joseph turned his smile to him. “But I wouldn’t be saying it if it doesn’t work.”

“Hey no, dude, that’s cool,” Mat sniffled, patting Joseph on his forearm. “Thanks, I…I really appreciate it.”

Joseph gave him a smile. “Cast your cares upon him,” he said, putting a hand on Mat’s own arm. “There is no burden that is too heavy for him to carry. If you’d like someone to pray with…just give me a call.” He winked at Mat. “And I’ll be there. I’ll even throw in some cookies for you and Carmensita, absolutely free. But wait—there’s more!”

He’d gotten the TV shopping voice down pat. Mat laughed although it sounded broken, pulling his head back and up to the wall, sniffling still. Rosa would never hear that, he would never be able to tell her about it ever again and it felt like the most tragic thing in the world. Joseph squeezed his arm and he nodded, but there was nothing about him that was, and would ever be okay, now that his safe place had gone from the world. 

The tears had stopped, at least, although the world was still a heavy pill to swallow. Hugo, Mary and Damien finally reappeared soon after, all of their faces looking worse for wear. 

Damien took the other seat next to him, and smiled. “Everything’s in order,” he said, his voice naturally quiet, a perfect fit for the mortuary just as much as he was, with his laces and vests and cloaks. “It’s time to go.”

Mat stared blankly at Damien, the image of Carmensita alone in their dark house in his mind. He burst out in tears all of a sudden, every shred of resolve he’d managed to stitch together torn apart by the weight of his grief and his fear. He fell forward, hiding his face in his hands but it only served to remind him that there was no running away from this nightmare which he must face alone. No resets, no safety blankets, no backup or maps. This time it would just be him, his own two feet and everything he didn’t know. How was he supposed to do this? How was he supposed to make things work? 

“I can’t,” Mat lamented, taken into Damien’s arms. “I don't know what to say, I don’t know what to tell her! Carmensita’s just a girl, how can she understand? What do I say to her?” 

“The truth, Mat,” Damien answered, stroking his back while Joseph patted his shoulder. “That’s all she has to hear.”

“But I can’t, she’s too young…” They were going around in circles. He had no choice. He had to be the one to do it. 

That night, Mat carried Carmensita up to her bedroom to tell her about her mother while she played with a rainbow cloth doll Mat and Rosa had bought in some charity event before. The girl was silent for the most part, nodding at certain points, but she was withdrawn and distracted. 

Mat closed the door after him when he left, but stayed long enough to hear her crying for her mother.

⚘

Arms crossed, rigid with anticipation, Mat stood by the empty counter, just across of Mary who stood by the wall near the door, a silver canteen that looked suspiciously like a hip flask held in one hand. She looked wearily up at Damien who kept her company, keeping his voice low to match the private conversation they were having.

“Is Mary gonna be okay?” Mat asked when he heard her husband coming up to his side.Joseph didn’t answer for a while. 

When he did, he said, “She’s stronger than she looks.” Which was, in itself, already pretty nice and strong. “Are _you_ going to be okay?” he asked after another second. 

Mat turned to see him looking down at his feet, next to which leaned a black case, travel worn and loaded with band stickers and whichever else fit his aesthetic, from the long neck to its body. “Yeah!” he said suddenly, minding his tone before he got too defensive. Or too fake. “Yeah, it’s okay, I’ve done this before.” With a cheerful beat and a matching look, he nudged at the man beside him. “This ain’t my first rodeo.” Except he might have jabbed a bit too eagerly if the look on Joseph’s face was anything to go by. Mat cringed. 

“But seriously, it’s all good,” he recovered, trying not to shift on his feet but he did put on something passable for a smile that was also appropriate for his nerves, currently. “It’s gonna be fine. Thanks for asking.”

Joseph smiled and nodded. 

“I, um, uhh…” Mat started again when he heard the silence creeping in between them. “I never got to thank you for sticking with me—that night. At the uh…hospital…”

Joseph shook his head. “I go where comfort is needed. I’m a youth minister, I do couple counseling…might as well go all the way!” They shared a brief laugh. “And I’ll have you know that my offer still stands. We’ll have bible study in our house this Sunday but after that, I’m free.”

Maybe if Mat had done much praying in the past few days, he could take him up on that—but he hadn’t even done much sleeping this late. He thanked him anyway, because that was the polite and nice thing to do. 

Joseph seemed to brighten up at the prospect. He must have felt like a shepherd bringing a lost sheep to the fold, Mat thought. At a loss of anything else to say that wouldn’t somehow lead to Joseph’s disappointment, he looked down to his watch, then up the stage. It was… 

No, it was not an excuse to exit the conversation. It was time. 

“Well, I uhh…” Mat looked down at his guitar case. Suddenly, it looked too heavy. “It’s umm…I should…I should. I should actually umm—”

“Take all the time you need to prepare,” Joseph said with a hand on his shoulder, sensing his hesitation. “I’ll tell everyone.” Pulling slightly at his black sweater, he left Mat to deal with his own anxiety as he walked to the makeshift stage set up just on the other side of the counter. 

“Good evening, everyone,” Joseph began with expert command as soon as he took the mic. Mat felt sick with envy, on top of everything else he was feeling. “Thank you, all, for gathering here tonight. I know today has been…quite harrowing.” He paused, his silence fitting the mood perfectly as everyone found their places. Mat could hear his blood pumping in his ears. 

“Today,” Joseph continued, “we had to say goodbye to one of our dearest friends who was gone too soon. Some of you,” he gestured to the cluster of Rosa’s sister and some old friends from the band at one side of the room, “had the privilege of knowing her for much longer than us. While some of us,” his hand fell on his chest, “wish we’d had more time with her.” He turned furtively towards Mat. 

He picked up the signal. Taking a deep breath, he finally bent to pick up his guitar. 

“But to all of us,” Joseph continued smoothly, eyes on the room again. “She is, was, and will always be our Rosa.” Looking down, he paused for another second, breathing deeply. 

“Tonight,” he started again. “Mat Sella would like to sing a few words.”

⚘

Mat could still remember the first time he’d seen the sun rise over the waters of Maple Bay, years back during _Stillness the Dancing’s_ debut tour. They’d just come from a show, and spent a sleepless night drinking and smoking that somehow led them to the bayside at dawn. He remembered how quiet they’d all been then, their feet dangling off the wharf, the breeze fresh and cool, seagulls off in the distance. That was the time Mat fell in love with Maple Bay. That was when he made the decision to raise his future family there.

“You know,” Damien chirped all of a sudden, “during the first part of the Victorian Era, cremation was considered largely unacceptable in England because of the influences of Christianity. You know, what with resurrection and all. But in the 1870s, there was a movement that promoted it as an alternative means to disposing bodies with medical and economic benefits. This led to the rise of crematoria not only throughout England but even in the US!” He exhaled deeply. “ Unfortunately, the Cremation Act in England was not approved until 1902.”

“Unfortunately?” Mat turned to Damien. “1902 sounds like a pretty good time to me. Better late than never, right?”

“It’s the start of the Edwardian Era.”

“Oh.”

Damien brightened up again. “Still,” he said, “it’s worth noting that the Edwardians wouldn’t have this claim if it hadn’t been for the foresight and the guts of the Victorians. We wouldn’t be enjoying this privilege if it weren’t largely for their work.”

Mat didn’t really understand what Damien’s issue was on the Edwardian Era but he figured it was probably the same with him and early 2000s popular music. Not that he would go so far as to say that he hated it… 

“That’s really cool, though, man,” Mat said, anyway. 

“Isn’t it?” Damien was pleased. “Well, here we are. This is you, isn’t it?” 

Mat looked up, at the soft orange glow of the skies, the bobbing ships, the glittering waters reflecting the dimming light. “Yeah,” he said. He was back. Years have passed, lives have changed, come and gone, but the bayside was exactly as he’d first seen it. It was a comfort for Mat, whose life had changed so suddenly, without a trace of what it used to be. Here, he could still feel that Rosa was beside him. 

Even though when he looked down, there was now only the pristine white box between his hands. 

“I remember,” he said suddenly, “when Rosa and I talked about settling down here for good, we wanted our house to be near the bay.” He looked up to it again. “After we moved in, we’d go up here every morning, every sunset just to stroll. She always said…” he sighed, “that she wanted to see this place one last time before she died…!”

“Oh, my friend, but that’s why we’re here, aren’t we?” 

Damien smiled when Mat, holding back his tears, turned to face him. “Are you ready?” he asked gently. 

Mat sniffled once and nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered, facing the box in his hands to open it. “Yeah.”

“I’ll take that for you,” Damien said, reaching for the package. 

Mat handed it off to him, leaving himself with a plain jar made of clay bought cheaply off the market. It was not ideal, but Rosa had been adamant about it. “When I die,” she’d said, “for the love of Mama Mary, I want you to throw my ashes away, every single one of them. Don’t even keep the urn and don’t spend so much on it. It’s just something to put my ashes in until you throw it away. You can even put me in a sandwich bag for all I care but make sure it’s eco-friendly so you can dispose of it safely.”

“But what if I want something to remember you by?” Mat had protested. 

“Cariño,” Rosa chuckled, smirking at her husband. “That’s what the coffee shop is for.” Rosa had always thought that coffee shops were full of life, teeming with music and people and conversations and food. Ashes would pale in comparison to it—if Rosa wanted to leave a souvenir, she would want it to be a living one. 

“Well, here goes,” Mat exhaled, tipping the jar towards the lapping water. “Nos vemos, mi amor.” See you, my love. “I hope you’re happy now.”

Carefully, he let the ashes flow into the beating wind which carried them out towards the setting sun. A fitting goodbye, Mat thought, Rosa’s first memory of Maple Bay’s waters being the sun rising over it. When the ashes had all gone, taken by the world so greedily as soon as they came pouring out, Mat raised the jar over his shoulder, and pitched it. The water took it with a quiet plop, swallowing it whole. That was pollution—but clays were made of earth weren’t they? Mat could only hope that science and mother nature would soon take care of it. 

He stared off into the distance, as if he was in search of Rosa’s ashes before he heard Damien sniffling beside him. “Thank you,” he said, a monogrammed handkerchief out to dab at his eyes, “for allowing me to partake in this beautiful moment. I will remember it forever. It’s simply so…” Filled with emotions, he flung his hand up dramatically, “beautiful! I’m at a loss for words. You’ve certainly raised the bar for saying goodbye, Mat. But thank you.” He sniffled again, drying his eyes. 

Mat didn’t know what to say about that. He ought to thank him, but he felt weird about it. This wasn’t just him, that was…those ashes were Rosa. And it was a sad thing, _he_ was sad. But Damien had said a compliment. “Hey dude, it’s…” he began but couldn’t finish. He tried again, “No, dude, thank you for coming out here with me. I…I don’t think I could have done it without you.”

“No, I think,” Damien pressed his handkerchief quickly on his nose before he tucked it in his cloak with a flourish, “you simply refuse to see the strength in you.”

Mat smiled. Strength—what strength? He just threw it all out, jar and all. 

He nodded at the box in Damien’s hand. “Better throw that away, too, before Rosa comes haunting you.”

“Ahh, then maybe I’ll hold on to it! I do love having her over for tea,” Damien chuckled at his own brand of humor. “Back in the Victorian Era, seances were all the rage. Of course, most, if not all, of them were fake.”

Mat was sure. He didn’t know what else he could say that wouldn’t offend him, though. “You coming by the Coffee Spoon later?” 

“Why, only too gladly!” 

“Great!” Mat smiled. “I know you got this thing going on with work…”

“It’s just data migration.” Damien waved his concern away. “Nothing Victor, Hugo and Laverne can’t handle. My virtual machines,” he explained quickly when Mat stared at him blankly. “They’re umm…named after the gargoyles of _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ , which I really liked. It’s umm…not quite Victorian Era but we can’t win them all.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Mat agreed. That at least was an easy enough thing to agree to. 

Damien turned to the waters after they shared a moment of silence. “Well, are we done here, then? Shall we go?” 

Mat followed his direction. “Yeah,” he said after a second. 

Damien touched him lightly on his arm. “I’ll meet you back in the car,” he said. 

Mat nodded, letting him walk alone. By then the skies were turning a bruised color, and the wind had shifted into something wilder. This, he, realized, was the last time he would ever have with Rosa near him in the bayside. Would he ever be able to come back? He wondered. 

One day, he would like to, he realized. Maybe when Carmensita was a little older, and they could talk about her mother again. But not now, not yet. 

It was still too soon.

⚘

“Hey everyone,” Mat began as soon as Damien had settled down between Hugo and Robert, shifting uncomfortably on his stool, an acoustic guitar between him and the mic. “Hey uhh…so uhh…thanks umm…for coming here. Just like what Joseph said. Sorry, I’ll umm…” He looked down to his guitar and ran his hand nervously over its face. “I’ll try not to repeat everything he said.” He cleared his throat, looked back up to the crowd.

Everyone was watching him with rapt attention, and for a second there he forgot to exist. The lights were getting too bright and hot and he swore the guitar would slip from his hands with just how sweaty they were. Could he wipe his hands down his jeans? In public? While everyone was watching him? Probably not, that sounded too embarrassing to do. 

“So uhh…” he began again, looking at everyone even though that only served to scare him more. “Welcome to the Coffee Spoon. This is our opening night. And uh,” back to his guitar, “I know it’s not ideal. I mean we all just…came from a funeral, my wife’s funeral, and everyone’s tired and lonely right now. Or maybe that’s just me.” He cleared his throat, looking at the wall, fist on his mouth. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that out loud. Uhh…” He turned to his guitar again, fixing his heel on the bar between the stool’s legs. 

“You know, the Coffee Spoon,” he raised his eyes to the crowd again, “was…Rosa’s dream. Ever since she was a kid, she’d always wanted a coffee shop of her own. And I…weirdly enough, always wanted to be a barista so we thought we’d make it work.” He cleared his throat, shifting again. “Unfortunately, Rosa didn’t make it until opening night. I had hoped she would. It’s why I made this thing happen now, ‘cause I was hoping she’d hang on long enough to see it happen. And maybe she’ll get better. Life doesn’t work your way, though.” Mat shrugged. “I should have done this sooner…” He forgot to apologize. 

To give his hands something to do, he started to strum his guitar. “When Rosa and I were making plans, we always wanted _Stillness the Dancing_ to play in the opening night.” He smirked slightly when his old friends from his touring life voiced their assent. “That was before, though. And now there’s just…” he paused. No matter how obvious it was, he still couldn’t say it. He still couldn’t accept the fact that now, there was only just…him.

He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think, anymore. He just wanted to get out of there, pay his tribute to Rosa and scram, be done with all of this. 

He struck the first chord in his guitar, and sang the first line of a song to a quiet room. The strength of his voice surprised him, a testament, he figured, to the magic of muscle memory but at least he wouldn’t have to redo the opening lines again. Now he just needed to get through the rest of the song. 

It flowed out of him, from one verse to the next, a song he had barely rehearsed but he couldn’t find the bone to worry about that now. It was too late besides, he was already in front of a crowd that would catch every wrong note he made. In his mind, at least, in the darkness behind closed eyes, he could see what he needed to see—an empty room, a big one, with shadows falling everywhere, a spotlight on him but no face to be seen. 

And beside him, his wife, a reassuring presence as he paused…and sang out gently the first lines of the chorus, each one of them a remembrance of how she used to be—her flaws and her greatest virtues, painting before him the woman that he’d loved and lost. 

His hands took on a life of their own as he sang on mindlessly, his timbre shaking but growing stronger. He was a victim of himself, trapped between his fear and his memories—of the first time he and Rosa were in the same room, their first conversations, the first song they composed, sang together, eyes meeting, faces close. 

He missed hearing her voice, the fullness of it and how sweet it sounded when Rosa sang high. He cried; he could tell he was already out of tune but he didn’t pull back. He strummed harder, sang louder, barreling through the second chorus in a fit of emotions that could never seem to be enough to fill the hole that Rosa had left—and in the end, that was the biggest tragedy of all. That no matter how much he shouted, how many songs he sang, how many ways he tried to talk about her, conjure her in his mind, she would never come back. She would never touch his hair again or finish his words or stick her finger in the batter he was making. Everything, every aspect of his life was gray now, like the color of the ashes now lost in the bay—his days, Carmensita’s future, the coffee shop, Maple Bay itself. Everything. 

His voice fell to a whisper, drawing out the last dregs of the song from his wrung out heart. He’d forgotten his guitar, forgotten why he’d sung the song in the first place, where he was. What he only knew now was the weight of his loss, the imbalance he felt with half his life gone, the guilt of being the one left to raise Carmensita who deserved so much better. How could he do this all and make it work? 

The silence held no answer. There was no applause this time, no roaring and whooping. Just the sniffs of a sparse crowd, the shifting seats. The wide gap between them, the emptiness at his sides. 

Mat peeled his glasses off his eyes, pressed his hand over them, and started to cry.

⚘

Later that night, he and Carmensita sat in Rosa’s beloved rocking chair in their living room, some secondhand thing that she’d just fallen in love with and bought from a yard sale. Carmensita lay across him, arms around his neck, damp cheek on his while he reciprocated with his arms around her waist, brushing her back while he swung them both, his own tears falling quietly. These days, that was the only way they could communicate anymore.

Carmensita tightened her arms around her father and Mat shifted for her. She sniffled, but refused to show her tear-stricken face to her father, still, and he didn’t ask to see. The room was dark besides, even though the night outside was illuminated by a clear silver moon Rosa would never again see. 

“Are we gonna be okay, Dad?” Carmensita asked suddenly. 

Mat choked up, surprised how desperate he was for his daughter’s voice but swallowed down his emotions before Carmensita noticed and maybe stopped. It was a baseless action, but he was too scared to screw up now. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he lied. “We’re gonna be okay.”

⚘

Years pass, but he still dreams about those nights—the night that Rosa died, the night after she was buried and the world felt like a dark stage where every step he would ever make was a great mistake. Some mornings, he would wake up with a heaviness in his heart, borne by the empty pillow at his side.

Most mornings, he would wake up, make his bed, and shuffle out the door to knock on Carmensita’s bedroom, calling to her, “Sweetheart, time to get up.” There was normally a cry in response—a generally disgruntled one at that—but some mornings such as this, there was silence on the other end. Mat waited for half a minute before he rapped the door again. “Carmensita, are you still in bed?” Silence again. “Oh come on, Carmensita—” 

“ _I’m in the shower!_ ” came the girlish roar of a young teen who clearly had no time for her father messing up her plans. 

Well, some mornings, she just got up earlier than her father. Mat issued an apology and went on with his routine, leading him down to the kitchen, waiting to be worked like a well-oiled machine. The coffee maker was soon brewing, the oil sizzling as he cracked eggs, scrambled them, added milk and other things his hands just happened to pass by in the fridge. Overhead, he heard Carmensita’s door open. He checked on his coffee before he stumbled out the kitchen. 

“Dad, have you seen my earphones? It’s not in Mom’s rocking chair,” Carmensita’s high voice filled the house. Mat sometimes wondered how much of their weekday routine could be heard over at the Cahn residence, although thankfully the other house next to them was still empty. Rumors were, though, that it had found a buyer. 

“Check the studio, you might have left it there,” Mat called back, not helping with the noise at all. “Sweetheart, do you want pancake for breakfast?” 

“Do we still have those hash from the fair?”

“Got it.”

He made her an omelette folded over hash, some onions and chopped potatoes, topped with a sprinkle of chives and because Mat could, a winking face drawn with ketchup. Carmensita shuffled into the kitchen soon after, dumping her slim bag and her collection of bracelets next to her. 

“Oye, hija, quitar eso,” he called to his daughter slumped over her Kindle, serving her her breakfast. He really ought to ban any e-readers or books to the table if they were going to make his daughter late for school. 

“Una pagina mas, Papa,” Carmensita begged for one more page, flipping the screen. Mat threw his hands in the air and could practically see his daughter grinning for her superior Spanish skills. Once upon a time, he’d left that task to Rosa. Now he was counting on Duolingo to do it. She was a smart kid, and she enjoyed the language besides. Far too much, in fact. 

Sometimes, though, he couldn’t help but worry about her. Right now, she was staring too closely at the screen in spite of her wide glasses. He thought she might be bringing too little to school even though she kept insisting that everything she needed was in her iPad, and he wondered if she might be too skinny, that she might be doing this unconsciously on purpose because of the screamy boybands she was listening to. But he knew that gave him no excuse to look into her Social Media accounts and her phone, no matter how much he was tempted to do it sometimes. Rosa wouldn’t do it—and most often than not, that was the only thing that has kept him from doing it. 

Finally, she set aside her reader to pull her plate in. Mat went around to snatch it off the table to slip it in her backpack, just when she called his attention and showed him his work, tilting her plate. 

“Did you just draw this face?” she asked, and by the tone of her voice, Mat thought she sounded a little disgusted. 

“Yeah,” Mat answered innocently anyway, opening the fridge for a pitcher of water infused with lemon, thyme and mint. It was some recipe that came from the neighborhood nutritionist ( _Brotritionist,_ Mat called him once and made Hugo and Brian laugh) which Carmensita decided was the best thing and needed in her own fridge. He turned away as he filled her glass, trying to eat the grin off his face. 

When Carmensita let out a great groan, though, he lost to the fight. “Dad, I’m too old for this!”

“Too old, she says,” Mat laughed, kicking the fridge door shut while he set the glass next to his disappointed daughter, smearing the ketchup face all over her omelette until it was no longer a ketchup face but a ketchup. “You’re still in middle school, Carmensita, you’re not too old for anything. And I want you to unlearn that thought, okay?” He stood next to his daughter, hands on his sides. “You could be 30, 40, 60 but you’ll never be too old for anything.”

Carmensita eyed him critically through the sides of her glasses, pursing her lips. “Ketchup faces are the products of capitalism, trying to appeal to the millennials with some washed up version of the American dream.”

“Okay, that’s a fair point,” Mat laughed, pulling his daughter’s head towards him to kiss her on her foofy hair. It wasn’t a fair point, there was too much big thinking in there for him, but he wouldn’t fight her for it. “I’m raising a little punk. I’m so proud of her.”

Satisfied by her victory, Carmensita began to eat. She’d polished the whole thing clean in a matter of 7 minutes in spite of Mat’s reminders to slow down but soon enough, she was brushing her teeth, putting on her bracelets and dragging her backpack over her shoulders. 

“Kick that math quiz in the butt, okay?” Mat called out to her as she hopped out the door and started down the street. “I love you.”

Carmensita turned around with a silent wave, lest the whole world hear her speak of her heart. 

After that, it was his turn to hurry up. He had a quick breakfast of brewed coffee and scrambled eggs, washed the dishes (he had a dishwasher but it was only there for emergency purposes which…never really came but he wasn’t complaining, he trusted his hands more than he trusted a machine), brushed his teeth and put on literally the first set of clothes he laid his eyes on when he opened his closet. After tying up his dreads in a lazy (but convenient!) half-pony, he was out the door, locking it behind him. 

The Coffee Spoon was barely 10-minutes away from the cul de sac on foot, which was how he had spotted his first customer of the day waiting miserably for opening hours near the back door, sitting on his haunches. As Mat pulled the grilled door open, keys jangling, he started awake with the noise, gasping, “Mothman?” while he stared about wildly. 

“Got my name wrong, dude,” Mat said by way of a greeting, smiling at the bewildered Robert while he unlocked the last door. “You know you could have just come in yourself, right?” 

“And be caught picking your lock?” Robert groaned, pulling himself up to his feet, almost tipping over if Mat hadn’t steadied him. He smelled strongly of whisky and smoke, as he always had, and his beard was getting out of hand—like his life, he might say. But something about Robert’s swagger—or lack thereof—told Mat that something had kept him from sleeping at all last night. Hence this. “Can’t risk it,” he snarled, pinching the skin between his eyes. “Don’t wanna go back.”

Mat laughed. It was funny because he had already given the man three copies of the keys and shown him how to work the outer doors. “All right, let’s get you something for that headache. What’ll it be?”

“Twenty-one shots of espresso and a loaded gun. Fuck my eyes! Why’s everything so fucking bright?” 

“Good morning, by the way,” Mat answered. 

He led him to his favorite spot in the coffee shop and served him a cup of his regular roast along with two pills of aspirin he kept in a mini medicine box exactly for this occasion. He went back with a plate of toasted bread, and then he left Robert to deal with himself while he set about opening the shop. In time, the lights would be on and the music would be playing and by the time the “real” first customer had come in, Robert would have stopped grumbling and hissing like a cat. 

Mat loved these mornings—the early crowd was too big to take any notice of him and most of them had eyes only for the time, their emails and the takeaway cup of coffee Mat was handing them. Hugo had stopped in for his usual brew, and Damien dropped by after him on a surprise visit. 

“You’re up too early,” Mat commented as he handed Damien his change. 

“Believe it or not, someone turned off the Apache server last night and now no one knows how to turn it back on,” Damien sighed, phone on his ear, dressed smartly in a collared shirt, a pair of clear glasses and his hair pulled up in a neat ponytail. “So they ask me to come in because it’s an emergency, and no one is answering my calls.”

“Sounds tough,” Mat said, serving him his cup of Chai Antwoord and a piece of cookie in a white paper sleeve. “Try to take it easy, dude.”

“That’s the hope,” Damien sighed, pocketing his phone and taking his order. “If I don’t hear them calling back over Bruce Springsteen, it’s not my fault.”

“No one blames Bruce Springsteen.”

“Oh, this cookie isn’t—” 

“Take it, man, you look like you could use a little pick-me-up,” Mat said, stepping away from his customer. “It’s earl grey.” He winked. “New recipe.”

Damien smiled, finally taking what he was due. “You’re a blessing, Mat.”

“Have a good day!” 

Damien waved at him as he made his way over to Robert to tap him goodbye. Robert muttered something to him, patting his hand on his shoulder until there was no hand to pat anymore and he was just patting himself on the back. 

Little by little, the customers slipped out, leaving Robert in the company of his third cup of coffee and Mat’s brand of coffee shop music. Mat himself disappeared into the kitchen with a sink full of dishes to attend to and a song in his lips as he set to work. He loved the solace that this part of the job gave him—the manual, mindless labor, the empty space of the kitchen with just him and the smell of coffee in it and the music bleeding in through the front. 

By the time he had finished setting them on the rack to dry, a new customer had come in. 

Two of them, he realized—a young black woman in the company of an older white man—as he stepped back out the front and greeted them with a cheerful, “Welcome to the Coffee Spoon, guys! How’s it going?” 

They were new faces, Mat could tell. Work in a corner coffee shop long enough in a neighborhood that barely changes and everyone’s appearances would more or less be familiar to your eyes—except these ones. The young woman had short brown hair pulled up to a stubby ponytail, a yellow hairband, lively eyes, a cool army green bomber jacket that looked well-loved over a printed white shirt and a pair of jeans that had the same feel as her jacket. Mat remembered Carmensita all of a sudden, for no discernible reason. 

But the man beside her was something else—clean and simple, his curly blonde hair was swept in place with a decent amount of gel, his blue button down polo looked like it came straight out of the ironing board if its sleeves hadn’t been rolled up over his elbows, and his jeans were new, and of a dark, stylish color that matched his leather shoes. 

And when he turned, Mat caught himself looking at a pair of blue eyes that…really wasn’t anything special except for that they were looking at him and that they were blue. He suddenly forgot the second part of his speech. Was there actually even a second part of his speech? 

“What’s with the name?” the girl asked, regaining both the men’s attention. 

“Oh, it’s uh…it’s kinda dumb,” Mat began, trying to swallow. “It gets mentioned in this poem I like, and I thought it was a good idea at the time, and I suppose now it’s still a good idea because like, the business is still running? But people ask me that question all the time and I give them this same answer every time and now I’m standing here,” he tossed his hands sideways, “rambling and I’m sure we’re all getting more and more uncomfortable the more I keep talking but man we’re in it now.” In a last ditch effort to save his pride, he braced his thumbs inside his pockets because that was decidedly cooler than just letting them dangle down his sides. 

It didn’t work. The customers stared back at him in silence, lips parted slightly, eyes round. Somewhere in the coffee shop, Mat could hear Robert snickering. He sighed in himself. Well, that was a great first impression. 

“So, what’ll it be?” he asked in a bid to get out of this awkward situation. 

Relief washed over him when the customers’ attention turned to the chalkboard menu. Mat caught himself glancing at those blue eyes again. Damn, what is it with him today! 

“I’ll have a…” the man began all of a sudden with a voice that Mat hadn’t expected at all, as if he had any expectations to begin with. It was…throaty, with a little grate, just the slightest effect, but all in all a pleasant sound. He paused for the longest second, squinting his eyes at the board. 

Until the woman flicked at the pair of glasses hanging down the man’s collar, a smirk in her face. The man jumped a little in surprise and gave her a flustered glare. She only grinned at him. 

“Excuse him, he part-times as a bat sometimes,” she said to Mat. Mat almost laughed. He knew what it felt like to be blind as a bat. 

Finally the man put on his glasses, and suddenly he looked like a scholar Mat could stake Carmensita’s education on. “I’ll have a…” he began again, and then with a little uncertainty, he said, “Godspeed You! Black Coffee.” 

He was a Brit! He had an accent that reminded Mat of the TV shows Carmensita stayed up all night binging on. He would never have expected this. This man just keeps surprising him more and more. Sting had a song about him, but as it turned out, the Englishman does drink coffee. 

“A classic,” Mat complimented but it really was a classic, as black coffee was. 

“I don’t get it,” the man said, his sculpted nose wrinkling slightly in confusion. Man, he had some cheekbones, too. 

“Oh, it’s a pun,” Mat jumped in quickly because that was what he did when people asked him about his puns. “Godspeed You! Black Emperor is a really amazing and influential progressive rock band known for their sweeping soundscapes and…” He stopped. 

“I’m doing the thing again,” he realized out loud. The man opened his mouth to speak, started to smile but Mat interrupted him with a, “But coming right up!” and turned to his companion before he could ruin anything else. “And for you?” 

“I’ll have a Macchiato DeMarco, please,” she said, confirming herself to have been raised locally. 

“Coming right up! Do you want that in Small, Medium or Biggie Smalls?”

“Wait, is Biggie Smalls big or small?” she asked. 

“Uhh…” Mat felt something akin to his brain shutting down on him. The man was looking at him and he looked back. Which didn’t help. “I should change that, shouldn’t I?”

After which he excused himself promptly and flew back into the safety of his kitchen to make their drinks. That hadn’t been how he’d planned for this morning, that conversation to go—not that he made much plans this late. But putting together their orders put him back in familiar ground (grounds, ha!), at least, that by the time he had served them, he felt as if he was more or less in control of things again. The man received his black coffee with a quiet word of thanks. Mat didn’t know why he noticed that, it was…just plain customer courtesy and Brits were known for being polite, right? 

“Hi! We’re new in the neighborhood,” the woman chirruped suddenly. “I’m Amanda and this is my Dad, Robert.”

“O, oh, right on!” Mat said in shock. Robert—the Brit’s name was Robert! He glanced nervously at Robert Small who looked suddenly like a cat with his fur on end. “Pleased to meet you both!” And he was her father? There’s definitely a story to be told here. 

“Actually, it’s just Bob,” Robert Not-Small (no, he really wasn’t small, he was, in fact, tall) said as rose with an embarrassed smile that seemed to light up his eyes as if through the whiteness of his perfect teeth, and offered a hand. “My dad’s probably the only one in the world who calls me Robert now.”

“I know the feeling,” Mat said, shaking his hand. It surprised him how soft it was. And how long his fingers were. “I’m Mat.”

“Short for Matthews Band?”

Mat stopped suddenly. “What?” 

“Uh, I mean…” Bob threw his hand around to indicate the shop, the chalkboard menu in particular, “It’s just…this place is built on band puns and I thought I’d make my own tribute to it and…” He hissed, cringing, his hands on his sides, eyes looking down. “That was a terrible joke, wasn’t it?” Amanda hid her eyes under her hands as she stared closely at her drink. 

“Hey no, it’s cool!” Mat laughed. Actually, he didn’t really listen to DMB but it was such a valiant effort, he had to appreciate it. “It’s totally cool.” He turned to Amanda peeking from between her fingers. “You oughta come by when my daughter’s hanging around the shop. You two might get along.” He turned to Bob. Something about his eyes just really kept catching him. 

Bob smiled. “Yeah, I’m sure we’ll maybe come in from time to time.”

Something slid under the table and he jumped back. 

“I’m sure we’ll be in here _a lot_ ,” Bob amended and glared at his daughter after. Amanda only grinned and popped two thumbs up. 

Mat thought they were really cute to watch. “You know what?” he said, backtracking with a finger up, “Lemme get your guys’ opinion on something.” Without waiting for a response, he was back inside the kitchen. 

He’d never done anything like this before—from a bread case, he pulled out a whole loaf of banana bread, taking some slices to heat up in the oven. He’d baked it the night before, hoping to share it with the cul de sac in exchange for a name but for the first time, a stranger was going to get its first taste. Mat had never done this before but Bob and Amanda seemed like a sensible enough pair so maybe that was it. 

Mat explained the mechanics to them, serving them the plate. Bob issued a compliment immediately which made him feel very good, especially after they’d practically polished their plates clean. 

And apparently given Bob a chance to redeem himself after the DMB pun. “How about…” he started, giving it some thought, “…Right Said Banana Bread? Like Right Said Fred but now it’s about banana bread. I think the youngsters would like it despite not getting it.” Bob settled back in his couch and smiled at Amanda. Amanda rolled her eyes. 

“That…” Mat said, running the name through his head, “…actually has a nice ring to it.”

“Really!” Bob smiled, surprised at his ingenuity. 

“Yeah. Right Said Banana Bread. Strong decisions.” Mat snapped his fingers and pointed at Bob. “That’s art, baby.” Bob’s lips parted in mild shock again at the same second he caught himself. He started to explain with his hand up, “I wanted to say _baby_ because I thought it would sound cool but once I said it, I realized that it just doesn’t sound good coming out of my mouth and maybe I should just leave saying _baby_ to the professionals.”

Bob started to laugh, and smile again but it was obvious that even he was having a hard time getting over his cheesiness. 

“Enjoy your coffee!” Mat said, putting an end to it. 

With a chuckle, Bob threw his hands up and said, “Thanks, baby.”

“See?” Mat called as he walked back to the kitchen. “It sounds good when you say it.”

It was only after he had cleaned up after the banana bread that Mat realized—he was blushing. But at least he wasn’t shaking but why the hell would he be blushing over the word “baby”? He wanted to laugh at himself, but didn’t. He had to compose himself when he stepped back out there so that Bob wouldn’t notice anything. And Amanda, of course. 

He came back to the front with some new items for the display just when Bob and his daughter got up, having left their payment on the table. “Thanks for stopping in!” he said, waving with a tray to carry their dishes. 

Bob turned back to him with his own wave. “You, too,” he said. He took one step and froze in the middle of the pavement, staring at Amanda staring back at him with a look that demanded, _What have you done?!_ “I’m never going to live this down, am I?” With a shake of her head, looking disappointed, Amanda led the way out to the direction of the cul de sac. 

The original Robert followed them out soon after with his own, “Thanks, baby,” and a laugh while Mat asked him to stop. 

The rest of the day moved slowly after that. Customers came and went as silent interruptions, Mat spent 30 minutes on the phone, trying to turn down the telemarketer. Joseph was a pleasant surprise, though, stumbling in with an urgent need for cookies after his children finished off the batch he’d baked for the church meeting. Shortly before sundown, a classic sedan parked near the sidewalk and Hugo came in, his bag slung over his shoulder. “Hey, look who I caught walking home from school.”

Carmensita appeared from behind the larger man with a grin on her face and a cheerful wave. 

“Hey, sweetie!” Mat brightened up immediately, giving his daughter a hug and a kiss. “How was school? Break any hearts today?” 

“Kim wouldn’t stop playing with my hair so I kicked him in the knees and called him a trash.”

“That’s my little punk,” Mat laughed, giving his daughter another kiss. “Just don’t let Hugo hear you saying that.”

“Thanks for the warning, Mat.”

He smiled at Hugo leaning back on a couch, massaging his head. “Long day at work?”

“That’s a good way of putting it.”

“Say no more,” Mat said, producing a fresh cup. “I know just the thing.” While he set about with Hugo’s drink, Carmensita made her way behind the counter to take a mini cake from the display, carrying it with her to a couch with a spoon. 

“Well, how was your day?” Hugo asked as he set down his coffee with his choice of toppings. 

Mat pondered his question only briefly. There wasn’t always much to say about it and some days, he just came up with the most mundane anecdotes just for a change. That wasn’t the case today, though. 

“Pretty good,” Mat said, sitting across of his friend, smiling slightly. “I think I may have met our newest neighbor.”

“Really?” Hugo had his cup up near his lips when he spoke. “The one between you and the Christiansens?”

“Think so,” Mat said. He turned back to Carmensita switching between her cake and her reader, a pair of earphones plugged in. “Hey, Carmensita. You know our new neighbor has a daughter who’s only a little older than you. I think you might get along.”

“What are their names?” Hugo asked.

Carmensita failed to answer, too absorbed by her book and whatever it was she was listening to. “Bob, and his daughter is Amanda. Only ones I met,” Mat replied to Hugo. “Actually, his real name’s Robert but he insisted to be called Bob.”

“That’s convenient.”

They chatted about him briefly, and then Mat remembered the Right Said Banana Bread which he served to Hugo who insisted he ought to make a cheese flavor. 

“Just imagine that cream cheese melting in your mouth!” 

“I’ll think about it.”

As the sun set, Hugo went home.

“Drop by next Friday, I’m expecting a shipment of Mexican chocolates,” Mat called to him from the kitchen door, carrying in his dishes. “Need your help coming up with a name.”

“Can I use authors?” Hugo asked, one foot out. 

Mat smiled and shook his head. “Gotta stay on brand, dude.”

“Talk to the hand,” Hugo said with his own disapproval, waving at him. They laughed. 

The rest of the evening passed by quietly and quickly until it was time to pack up. Carmensita helped Mat with the cleanup while he closed the sales. After locking the back door, they walked home together, where Carmensita finally remembered to tell her father about her day.

She hadn’t caught their new neighbor stepping out of his house before she went in. Mat watched him step on his lawn where he turned to gaze up at his new home, hands on his sides. He thought the cul de sac looked brighter, and warmer, now that he was there. 

“Hey, Bob,” Mat called to him. The man turned in search of his voice, blue eyes round. He still had his glasses on. “Everything okay?” 

“Yeah,” Bob answered. “Everything’s OK…GO. Good.” When Mat laughed, he raised a hand at him. “I’m working on it, okay?” 

“You’re doing great, dude,” Mat said, waving to him. “Let me know if you need help.” 

Bob lifted his own wave. “Cheers.”

Mat went in finally, locking the door behind him—but he stayed by the window looking out to his new neighbor, to watch Bob looking at his house. He thought those rolled up sleeves were a nice touch on him. He ought to try that himself. 

When Bob finally went back in his house, Mat made his way to the kitchen. Carmensita was already in there, getting dinner started. He hoped he didn’t make her wait long.


End file.
